_Harrington_ to _Worthy_.
_Boston._
I HAVE seen her—I prest her to my heart—I called her my
Love—my _Sister_. The tenderness and sorrow were in her eyes—How am I
guilty, my friend—How is this transport a crime? My love is the most
pure, the most holy—_Harriot_ beheld me with tears of the most tender
affection—“Why,” said she, “why, my friend, my dear _Harrington_, have I
loved! but in what manner have I been culpable? HOW WAS I TO KNOW YOU
WERE MY BROTHER?—Yes! I might have known it—how else could you have been
so kind—so tender—so affectionate!”—Here was all the horrour of
conflicting passions, expressed by gloomy silence—by stifled cries—by
convulsions—by sudden floods of tears—The scene was too much for my
heart to bear—I bade her adieu—my heart was breaking—I tore myself from
her and retired.
WHAT is human happiness? The prize for which all strive, and so few
obtain; the more eagerly we pursue it, the farther we stray from the
object; Wherefore I have determined within myself that we increase in
misery as we increase in age—and if there are any happy days they are
those of thoughtless childhood.
I THEN viewed the world at a distance in perspective. I thought mankind
appeared happy in the midst of pleasures that flowed round them. I who
find it a deception, and am tempted sometimes to wish myself a child
again. Happy are the dreams of infancy, and happy their harmless
pursuits! I saw the _ignis fatuus_, and have been running after it, and
now I return from the search. I return and bring back disappointment. As
I reflect on these scenes of infantine ignorance, I feel my heart
interested, and become sensibly affected—and however futile these
feelings may appear as I communicate them to you—they are feelings, I
venture to assert, which every one must have experienced who is
possessed of a heart of sensibility.
Adieu!